


Intimate Moments

by NotWithABangButWithAWhimper



Category: SPN, Supernatural
Genre: Destiel - Freeform, Dreams, Intimate Moments Series, M/M, Prayer!Kink, Smut, but not really smut yet lol
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-27
Updated: 2013-06-28
Packaged: 2017-12-16 08:36:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/860128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotWithABangButWithAWhimper/pseuds/NotWithABangButWithAWhimper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean doesn't like to sleep alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which Cas Receives a Prayer

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my first spnfic...so let me know what y'all think what you like or don't like? I have no idea what I"m doing but y'all are so great to help me out (:

Dean couldn’t sleep alone. When Sammy was around, when he could hear his brother’s quiet breathing, he slept fine. When He was at Bobby’s, and he could hear the old man’s chair scraping around downstairs, the occasional bottle getting thrown and clanging into the trash can, he slept fine. When he could hear the rhythm of life of the people he loved, it whispered to him and rocked him to sleep like a lullaby to a child. But now, when he was alone in some trashy motel, and he didn’t have the people he loved surrounding him…He’d never say, but the loneliness kept him up.  
  
Rolling over and burying his face into his pillow, arms stretched above his head, he finally shut his inner voice up enough to sleep. His shoulders visibly relaxed, his back muscles finally loosening. To make room for his arms, he’d had to scoot down a little and now his feet hung off the end of the twin bed. The blankets were skewed over his body with all his restlessness, revealing his shoulders and back, along with his legs from mid-thighs down. His last thought, as he drifted to sleep, was hoping Sammy was disgusted by him sleeping naked in full view, that’s what he gets for staying out so late and leaving me alone, he smiled smugly, and sleepily.  
  
His smile softened, eyes happily shut as he drifted off, simultaneous with his slackening muscles. Dean’s forehead, which spent so much time crumpled up with stress, confusion, or desperation was smooth and relaxed. His mouth was still holding a ghost of a smile, but it was soft and warm and looser, lips not pressed together with anxiety or worry, barely shining in the light as he wet them with his tongue. His neck and shoulders were soft, skin just barely chilled to the touch from the lack of blankets, were relaxed, his muscles loose and finally at rest. His back was strong, lined with scars with a deep dip between the muscles to mark his spine. His thighs, which are weird to think about on a man, were strong but big, and with clear definition of the muscles. His calves were smooth and tan, sloping down to his feet, adorably dangling off the end of the bed. Softly in his sleep, barely more than a breath, he sighed, the incoherent name of a dream.  
  
Coming on dean’s call, Cas popped into the room, this was the sight he was met with. Dean laying, prone and soft, in a way he rarely ever showed. Cas paused, unsure of how Dean could have called him if he was asleep.  
  
“Dean?”  
  
Again Dean mumbled, mouth muffled by sleep and the pillow his face was still half pressed into. Cas felt an innate pull, one remarkably similar to the one when he felt Dean pray. Confused, and no longer seeing a reason for him to be there, Cas left. He popped away with the silence he consistently maintained, but this time with a confused and slightly embarrassed look upon his face, both at the nature of the moment and at interrupting such an innately intimate moment of Dean’s.


	2. In Which Castiel responds to a Prayer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean has another dream, muttering Castiel’s name as if a prayer, bringing Cas to him while he sleeps. Cas realizes how attractive Dean is, etc.

Pushing his dream to the back of his mind in the morning, refusing to acknowledge it in the tried and true, good ‘ole Winchester way, Dean shuffled to the bathroom, irritably pushing down his morning wood. _Nothing gets attention before coffee,_ as he turned on the shower, eyes widening as the cold water cascaded down. Heating up quickly, Dean scrubbed quickly, focusing on his one and only goal in the morning. Rinsed clean of the consistently crappy motel soap, Dean jumped out of the shower, toweling his hair off quickly, and stumbled out of the bathroom.  
  
Grunting at Sam, Dean passes him between the beds and the bathroom. Sam’s shocked face at Dean’s lack of clothes was proper retribution for leaving him alone the previous night. Dean happily and finally poured himself a cup of coffee: black, crappy, and strong as hell. Sitting down for a minute and just enjoying the quiet noises of his brother banging around in the bathroom, probably blow drying his fucking hair, and the cup of coffee in his hand, Dean closed his eyes and just let the moment of peace wash over him. They had a white woman to take care of, by the look of it, and that would take all damn day. Sam had his bitch face on all day yesterday, and that didn’t look like it was going to improve, so that’d be exhausting. But for now, right now, it was quiet and there was peace.  
(Later – that night)  
  
Falling onto the bed while Sam stalked to the shower, Dean yanked off his grimy, bloody shirt. Inspecting his arm, there was a long gash where the bitch had nearly gotten him. Shallow, and bleeding, but thank god it didn’t need stitches. He didn’t want a needle in Sam’s hand right now, He’d either be shaking too much to do anything or stab me. The woman in white had been blonde, pale, with pretty eyes, and looked an awful lot like Jess.  
  
The little bitch was taking so long in the shower that Dean was drifting off to sleep. Grimy and still in his jeans, boots on, sweat drying on his skin, Dean fell asleep. Twenty minutes later, Sam came out slightly more calm, and able to stop shaking and function again, but Dean was too gone. Throwing on sweats, Sam fell into bed, not bothering to help his brother out of his boots of lay a blanket on him.  
  
The moon was out, glowing through the shitty almost transparent curtains and highlighting the boys. Dean had flipped onto his stomach, arms spread wide with one hanging off the bed, and one curled above his head. One boot had fallen off, the other still clung on. His jeans were rumpled up, showing hairy ankles. A long breath escaped him, loosely formed into the word from a dream. Cas was suddenly there, looking down at Dean, concerned yet again, from the side of his bed. Smiling a little, Cas realized that Dean always slept on his stomach. He affectionately let his eyes travel over Dean’s back, looking at how his arm was crooked above his head, how the muscles bunched and rippled and he tensed and relaxed with his dream. His eyes traveling downwards, he saw that not only was it Dean’s shoulders, but his hips were tightening and untightening. Moving forward slightly with each time they tensed up, he saw Dean was almost rutting against the rough fabric of his jeans. A low groan, one barely forming a word escaped his parted lips, and Cas felt the inexplicable draw to come to Dean yet again. Hesitantly, unconsciously, he took a step forward.  
  
“Dean?” another low groan  
  
“Dean, can you hear me?” Unable to resist the draw to Dean, Cas reached an arm out slowly, just needing to feel his skin beneath his fingers. Lightly, he let his fingers settle on the muscles that rippled through Dean’s shoulders. The sensation was…amazing. Feeling Dean’s body, how Dean’s muscles were moving. How was it possible that his body felt so new, and different? Castiel had a vessel; he was in possession of a human. Albeit willingly, but still possession. He had properly examined and explored his vessel; he knew anatomically where the muscles were and how they moved, what the sensation of touch felt like, and the response it elicited from his human self.  
  
“Cas…” a louder groan, hoarse with need, as Dean’s shoulders arched up to meet Cas’s hand, craving skin on skin contact.  
  
Suddenly aware of the intimacy of the moment, Cas disappeared.


	3. In Which Dean "Responds" to a Dream

Dean woke up flushed, feeling even grimier and stickier than the night before. Shifting up, he realized. _No. I did not. I’m thirty fucking years old! No. I didn’t. But god, that dream…_  
  
Dean had been lying down, on his back nearly asleep, just as he had before he had fallen asleep. Suddenly, he was there, sitting next to him. Dean was looking up at him, suddenly aware of his eyes, how blue they were, his jaw and how strong it was, the stubble that laid on it. He had reached out a hand, until it was pressed softly by firmly against Dean’s chest. Biting his bottom lip, Dean had arched up to meet his touch, chest pushing upwards, craving more contact. His hand moved down, over Dean’s stomach, closer to Dean’s now too-tight jeans. Dean’s cock was straining against his jeans, and all Cas had done was touch his chest. Glancing down, Dean could see the head and crown of his cock in the gap between his boxers and his hips, as his cock was pressing his pants and boxers up. Groaning, he felt a drop of pre-cum slide out of his slit and fall onto his heated skin, between his hip bones. His hands reached out, unknowing of what he needed, just needed contact, more, god more. His hand met Cas’s thigh, gripping it hard, and pulling him to Dean. Cas’s legs spread wider, his whole body unwilling to come to Dean’s tug. Realizing, Dean felt a rush of heat go through him, raising him past boiling point, as he thought of Cas with his legs spread wide, cock hard. Dean couldn't hold it anymore, as Cas’s hand dipped finally lower, covering him with pressure. His mouth opened in shock of the sensation, the pressure, his hips rocked forward into Cas’s hands, unable to think through the feelings of his cum shooting out of his cock, covering his chest and Cas’s hand. Silently, fascinated, Cas had raised his hand to his mouth, softly pressing the broad flat of his tongue against the cum, lapping it up. Mouth open in shock, Dean gave a feeble whimper, unable to handle the sight.  
  
Red enough to hide his freckles, and hard as fuck, Dean glanced over, ashamed and embarrassed, to his brother…who was thankfully still asleep. Quickly, Dean scrambled up and walked awkwardly and stiffly to the shower. Turning on the spray of chalky hotel water, he eased his body under the warm flow, and sighed as it hit his muscles in the most wonderful way. Dean took his time this morning, slowly scrubbing and washing away the filth and grime from the night before. The water ran down his body a milky brown, and Dean grimaced as he let the clean water run over the gash on his arm. Using the wash cloth, he slowly wiped away the layers of sweat, dirt, grime, and blood that caked it. Finally rinsing clean, he examined it. Knew it wasn’t that bad. Son of a bitch just didn’t let me shower last night.  
  
Strutting out of the bathroom with a towel held around his waist, he passed Sammy, who was wiping sleep from his eyes and grumbling about all the light. Dean settled at the kitchenette just like every morning and poured himself a cup of coffee. He re cleaned and patched up his arm and then sat, enjoying the silence of the morning.  
They decided to head back to Bobby’s, having not seen the old man in a while and not seeing a hunt on the horizon. Dean had one of his rare moments where he let Sam drive, and totally crashed in the passenger seat, mouth open and snores irritatingly loud. Sam had always known Dean talks in his sleep, having shared a motel room with him for as many years as he could count (minus a few Stanford-bound ones), and wasn’t surprised when Dean started mumbling. What did surprise him, and make him nearly run off the road, was Cas appearing suddenly, face huge in the rear view mirror, almost immediately after. Exhausted and confused, Cas dropped his head into his hands, “Why does he keep calling me?! I don’t understand! I can always hear Dean pray, have always been able to hear Dean pray, but he is asleep!” His voice touched on anger in the end, aided by frustration and lack of sleep. Sam was confused, “What?”  
  
“For the past two nights, Dean has called me. And each time, he has been asleep, barely making any noise, and certainly not able to be woken up. I am exhausted, I have duties in heaven, and I just want to know what is making this happen so I can make it stop!”  
  
“Wait…so that’s your name he’s mumbling?”  
  
“I believe so, yes. Though why, I am not at all sure of.”  
  
Quietly in the passenger’s seat, Dean let out a low moan and a very audible “Cas…god, oh..” before quieting down again, and shifting his hips restlessly in his sleep.  
“Oh my god,” Sam whispered, “He’s…Cas he’s dreaming of you.”  
  
“Why would he dream of me?”  
  
“Cas I…um, I think he’s just very interested in knowing you is all,” Sam managed to stutter out, catching sight of the telltale lump in Dean’s lap, as well as recognizing the hip shifting as a search for friction.  
  
“Will you talk to him, Sam, please? This is so tiring for me and I just cannot come from heaven for these things, but I do not want to miss something that he may potentially truly need me for.”  
  
“Oh, I think he needs you for a lot, Cas. But yes, I’ll talk to him.”  
  
“Thank you, Sam.” And Cas was gone again. Brows furrowed, Sam stared ahead at the road, trying to figure out what all this meant, and if he was right and his brother had been muttering Cas’s name for…more than friendly reasons.


	4. In Which Dean is actually awake when he calls Cas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean finally gets some alone time, but when he lets go and calls Cas, he's actually awake to deal with the consequences.

“No, damnit, Sammy, I don’t want to talk about this! I don’t care what you thought you heard, or what y’all _IMAGINED ___, but I did NOT say Cas’s name in my sleep!” Dean was red in the face, shouting and pounding his hands against the steering wheel, periodically punctuating his sentences with accidental honks.

“Seriously, dude? Why don’t you call down Cas. He may not understand a lot, but I’m willing to bet he understands English really well, seeing as he was around when they invented it and all.”

“What the fuck ever, Sammy.” Dean slammed the door of the impala, started stomping towards the main office. Slapping his palm against the door, he shoved it open. “Two rooms,” he growled at the attendant. At Sammy’s questioning look, he spoke again, “I am not listening to this bullshit all night. It’s worth the cash.”

When he got to his room, Dean realized with a thrill that for the first time in, hell, months, he was going to have a room to himself to do whatever the fuck he wanted.

45 minutes later, Dean was on his back on the bed, barely propped up, ass naked. He had the remote in his hand, was flipping through the On Demand Skinimax, waiting for the preview scenes to send a spike of _want ___through him. This was how Dean played the game: in life, in the bar, with hunts, with beer, everything. He operated on the fact that happiness was few and far between, so if he felt that white hot tendril of want curl through him, he went for it. Every time. So when he flipped across a skin flick of a dark headed man with shocking blue eyes looking up with a cock in his mouth, camera looking down as if from the owner of the dick’s view, he dropped the remote and almost cringed with how fast the blood filled his cock.  
  
He gripped the base, tugging roughly up a few inches at the base, almost massaging himself. He matched his pace to the bottom on the screen, sucking that cock in and out of his mouth like he loved it. _Those eyes, though… ___The man on the screen, Blue Eyes, Dean had started referring to him, started humming and softly, sucking hard and backing up on the cock in front of him, slowly bringing it to hardness. Soon it was bobbing in front of his face, and he was striping his tongue up from the base to the tip in long, wet strokes. Dean groaned, unable to really hold back anymore and keep the slow pace Blue Eyes had. He gripped himself a little rougher, started letting his imagination take over. He started imagining someone in front of him doing that, the stubble scraping lightly against the underside of his dick as they licked up his length; imagined bright blue, shocking eyes looking up at him. Eyes like _fuck, it’s not like anyone was around, he didn’t have to lie here… ___  
  
Eyes like Cas’s. Beautiful, deep fucking pools that swallowed him up if he looked too long, left him feeling hot and itchy in his skin. He imagined those eyes looking up at him with his hard length in between those perfectly pink lips. “Fuck,” he groaned out, louder than he thought but not really caring. He felt his orgasm coming on him like a train, barreling into and through his body. He tensed up, back arching, hips bucking into his own hand as he came, ropes hitting his stomach and chest, almost cool against his overheated, flushed skin. “Cas,” he gasped out, before shutting his eyes, boneless in the glowing aftermath of his orgasm.

The video was still playing, the slurping now obscene and wet, and would have made Dean cringe if he’d had the ability to move.

“Hello, Dean,” an exhausted voice, laced with exasperation, spoke from near the doorway to the room.

Somewhere in the numb shock of his mind, Dean thought about how much progress Cas had made that he was now exhibiting both exhaustion and exasperation at once.

A muffled voice floated through the wall and the vent, “Also, dude, bad form to deny it and then come yelling his name. In a motel. Come on.”


End file.
